The last time

is a mindfuck.

I never know that the last sex will be the last sex.
It’s a hollow shock once realization hits.

***

We break up.
Oh, right, we did buy those tickets for the show next week.
In another state, hotel room for the night.
We decide to go.
Ol’ times sake.

We sit at a famed meat-and-three joint on the road to the show. We’re quiet, but able to maintain conversation. Things feel comfortable for the first time in our post-break-up world. I look out the window, breathing in the cloudless Missouri sky; it’s a beautiful blue and suddenly—

Her: What? What is it? Why are you looking like that now?
Me: I’m just processing…you really want to know?
Her: Yeah, you got obviously sad and quiet all of a sudden.
Me: It just hit me that we’ve had our last sex.
Her: Silence. Whoa this is weird; she’s never at a loss for words.
Me: What’s up? Are you okay?
Her: I thought we’d have sex tonight, you know, because…it’d be the perfect ending.
Me: Seriously?! But we’re broken up…and I need to process that and…I just…can’t.

She’s affected, which surprises me.
Slow tears roll down her face, which floors me.

Neither of us eat anything else and as I pay for the check she gets on her phone.
She’s texting her crush, who happens to live not so far from where the show is.

I can count the number of days we’ve been broken up. She has a new crush. Why the hell would I think she’d want to have a last sex?

She drives.
I think.

A meaningful last sex sounds sweet but sweet sentimentality like this is not a language I speak. As she grieves over a last sex that won’t happen, I recall and play our last in my head. Only because it was fairly recent am I able to remember any of the details: she came, I came and a plastic bottle, one-third full of orange-colored Vitamin Water stands on the edge of the platform bed. Wow, that was our last time. That the damn bottle of Vitamin Water is the most detailed part of last sex memory indicates how unremarkable it was.

***

A decade of sex: many firsts, orgasms, toys, locations, positions, the list goes on.
I believe in the decade of messy, innocent, funny, awkward, loving, real moments…not in a perfectly designed last memory as my heart still breaks.

relationshipping, the sex

A meaningful first

is possible.

“Sometimes I’m grateful that the first time I had sex was someone I was in love with but sometimes I think it set me up for years of disappointment,” says my insightful and beautiful soulmate.

I ponder this as first sex is on my mind this week. With each new person, the sex changes; it’s always a totally different experience and not fairly comparable in the context of relationships.

I don’t have expectations of grandeur when it comes to first sex. It’s been boring, unexpected, romantic, fun, exciting, drunk, awesome, exhausting, curious, painful, sweet, incredibly nerve-wrecking and possibly…love? Never the same and always revealing. What can I say, the nekked is an interesting tell, from grooming habits to…well, the naked truth.

So no grand expectations but in a relationship, evolution is crucial. How it evolves depends on the other person and navigating that how has been the most fun and fascinating thing. I learn about myself, my person, limits, curiosities et al.

Toys? Sure, but not all and which ones really depend on my person. And not all the time. Public sex? Why not? But just how much of an exhibitionist is (s)he? These are interesting reveals. Cabs are fun, galleries and theaters too but as they give way to tiny, red-bulb bathrooms and I’m increasingly missing a warm bed and lazy sheets, a limit is within reach. Then there’s open relationships. Some, like S, can do this beautifully whereas I end up confused and emotionally drained; great in theory but a mess in my practice. Or, You want me to tie you up? Not a problem until I realize that I’m terrible at knots which is kind-of a problem and when it’s either do my damn knot homework or move on, I walk. Then there are the myriad variations within the realm of two people simply doing it.

Oh relationships…sometimes the sex is disappointing and the ending even more so but looking back, I don’t remember the mediocre or even bad sex.

I remember the awkward sweetness of youth, fumbling out-of-sync, habits and routines, random on-drugs camping, the laughter, rocky boats, staying silent, the cocoon of stars so close to the equator we are floating in the sky, the most comfortable bed ever because it’s ours.

I remember making up, rainy days, early mornings, late nights, breakfast in bed, different beds in different cities, states, countries and seasons changing.

I remember the love.

random love, the sex

Let’s talk about sex

But where to start?

How about one of my firsts.
I was 19 years old.

Me: Wait, what’s his name?
BFF: ***. He’s really cool and he wants to meet you since he’s ***’s (her boyfriend’s) best friend and you’re my best friend and you happen to be in New York.
Me: Sure, why not. I’ll see when I’m off this week. I’ll let you know how it goes.

I know this guy likes to party, way more and harder than I do so my judgy mind expects a strung-out skeletal raver-kid who could be beautiful or with fucked up speedy teeth and bad skin who can’t stop scratching himself.

He’s actually much more wholesome-looking than I expect and quite polite but that could just be an effect of his charming English accent. The strangest thing is how safe I feel around him and maybe it’s nothing more than my internal radar believing that if I don’t acquiesce, he won’t sex. Either way, I trust him enough to easily “sure,” when he asks if I want to party.

His friends live in a way too fucking cool for school apartment in a doorman building and they’re already SMAAaa-shed. Actually, considering that they haven’t left their place for almost three days, they are in that dreamy-haze state that saw wasted over 36 hours ago. We’re just in time for nitrous rounds! But I stick to my familiar weed and alcohol as he snorts, smokes and rapid-inhales a motley assortment until he’s blue in the face. He stays blue-violet long enough that not only am I worried (of course I’m worried) but his friend who showed up god-knows-when is worried, until said friend takes a hit of something and disappears into his own high world.

Time suddenly morph-warp speeds as happens when drugs happen and as we’re sitting in a diner eating many plates of pierogies, I need to decide if I want to have sex with him because his friend is asking him if he needs a place to crash. He still feels safe to me and as tends to happen when shared experiences take place, I feel close to him. So why not? Yeah, come back to my crappy dorm room.

He uses a condom.
I intake sharply as he decidedly fucks me.
He cums.
All in all, he’s pretty sweet and gentle.
I reach for a cigarette and quickly become lost in thought as I inhale delicious nicotine.
He joins me for a smoke- “Oh, right!”- because that’s what you do after a fuck?
He crashes, thank god.
I go to the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror.

So that was that.

He didn’t say degrading things that make me feel inadequate and dirty.
I didn’t fix my eyes on a single, burning bulb, willing it to render me blind to erase what was happening.
I had no problem looking at him the next day, directly in the eyes to say, “I’ve got to go to work so you’ve got to go.”

It was devoid of any meaning.
That it was a meaningless act made it absolutely meaningful; a first of many in the realm of sex.

My first one-night stand was the first time I had sex.

open relationship, relationshipping, trans talk

I’m the Q

“Bless your heart but you are so not a lesbian,” says S.

The fact that we can have this honest conversation is huge.
The fact that S can have her sense of humor about a hurtful point of conflict is even huger.

Until this moment, S would often wonder why I couldn’t stay attracted to her if she’s still the same fabulous person on the inside and I was in a lesbian relationship for a decade. In her shoes, I’d wonder the same thing but the best truth I’ve got is: the attraction cooled to something tepid within me and tepid is a pretty lame concessionary temperature for a love relationship.

I nod and recollect, ” ***(my long-term ex before S) said the same thing when we were dating.”
S shakes her head and pats my own. “It’s really LGBT-supportive and I love you for it but you are not gay.”

I concede this point.

Before S, I maintain that I fall in love with the person, not the gender. Although that statement pretty much announces my bisexuality, by mentioning gender, I qualify being a lesbian and/or having been in a lesbian relationship. It’s as though I can’t commit to simply being gay, even though I was in a lesbian relationship for a decade. No wonder my long-term ex wouldn’t call me a ‘real’ lesbian; it took over half the length of that relationship before I’d say was a l-l-lesbian.
Then we broke up.

As S transitions, I am forced to dissect how true this ‘not the gender’ assertion is.
It’s not so true.

Without a doubt, my relationship history defines me as bisexual. However, every person I have dated since S and I have open-relationshipped and broken up has been male, which then makes me feel like a bit of a liar if I call myself bi in the present. But the second I identify as a straight girl, I have a feeling the universe will find a way to have the last laugh.

So.

In my apparent quest to self-identify, I’ll go with queer.
I’m the Q in LGBTQ.

Because one sure thing is that my past, present and future sexual identity and experiences sure as hell (will) fall outside the hetero-defined mainstream.

Thank. God.

trans talk

Did I ever tell you

the first time I saw S en femme?

***

She is so nervous. So much so that the first time I’m supposed to see her as a lady, she can’t do it. So we put it off for a few days.

S is afraid I will reject her, judge her, dismiss her very early steps into transitioning.
I have my own insecurities.

Will I instantly feel differently towards her?
What will my reaction be?
Will my face give away any number of emotions- disappointment, relief, apprehension, rejection- that hit my heart?

I text her a heads-up and slowly make my way home.

Usually when I enter the house, I receive an insta-greet but tonight, we are both beyond trepidatious. I have to call out; she’s nowhere in sight. She’s in the bathroom, readying, steadying herself to come out.

It’s one thing to tell me she’s trans. It’s another thing when I see evidence in the way of heels, makeup, clothes strewn about. It’s another league of confrontation when I am about to see him attired undeniably as a female.

I am so anxious, I feel queasy.
I tell myself to calm it because odds are, S is more nervous than me.

And she is.

She super cautiously opens the bathroom door and so gingerly steps out. She can’t look at me.

I take her in.

I give her an honest, deliberate once-over, starting with her nude pumps and traveling up to her above-the-knee dress. I gaze at her bare arms, her wrists and her poor hands are trembling. It hits me just how nervous she is; I look into her eyes and I barely notice her makeup, which I know took serious time to apply.

She is wide-eyed and terrified.

I immediately take her in my arms and give what I hope is the most reassuring hug ever.

“You’re so nervous…”
She can only nod, fear still screaming from her eyes.
“It’s okay. Really. You look different, more natural than I expected. I love you. We’re okay. I’m so glad you came out to me.”

She finally starts breathing.

Phew.

This is the first time I’ve seen this side of S. I’m not talking about her physical transformation; I’ve never seen her so vulnerable before, so unsure and emotionally scared.

It then hits me. The emotional transition process will be a time to face feelings that we often choose to deny or gloss over because they’re rather uncomfortable little fuckers.

And thus the adventure begins.

***

Happy New Year, beautiful readers!!!
2014’s adventures will be decidedly different but no less honest- yikes and cheers!

relationshipping

An impossible love

is not fun.

I was talking to a most awesome individual the other night, playing holiday catch-up, telling him what amounted to tales of a heart-hammering 2013.

At one point he said, “Wow…everyone loves you. You have all these people who love you. I have a lot of people I can fuck but nobody loves me.”

This disarmingly honest statement is the most endearing thing he could have said.

But what happens when none of that love is possible?
What good is being loved if life and individual circumstances don’t allow it to be fully realized?

Because that’s my situation.

2013 has been my year of impossible loves. The love part has been tremendous but being hit with the reality of said impossibility hurts something equally tremendous.

Why impossible?
Physical and emotional unavailability, a waning sexual attraction, a disparity in levels of commitment…factors that can’t be compromised without compromising oneself.

So my year has been chock full.
Of expectations.
Of love.
Of letting go.

And the trade-off?
I stay true to myself and the situation at hand.
This truth fucking hurts me and causes hurt but it’s honest.

But truth? I want to roll my eyes at pretentious honesty, ignore its gnawing presence and live in denial-land except I am incapable (thank you, fuck you previous life experiences). I want to rationalize growing chasms in my relationships but I just can’t. Once I feel that certain break, the one where my instinct high-alerts my heart and brain to prepare for impending sadness and grief, I know an ending is inevitable. Ignoring my instinct isn’t an option as it has saved my ass too many times; my life, even, on occasion.

After an ending, I am a puddle of grief.

What to do between cathartic cries?

I focus on myself.
I hurt, I think, I grow.

And I appreciate this difficult thing that is love.

random love, relationshipping

Let’s jump ponds

It’s time for an adventure.

But why does anyone do an international move?
To find themselves
or to run away.

Before I started dating S, I knew I’d move from the American South but that was to be a decidedly domestic decision between my beloved NYC and possibly Philadelphia.

Then when S and I got serious, so did the international-ness of next destination- Spain or Japan.

Why Japan?

I used to give what I thought was a well thought-out answer:
I wanted to get in touch with my cultural roots.
I wanted to be in a big city again.
I wanted to be in a more creative city.

As the move-out date approaches after S comes out as trans, I begin to doubt.
I ask S on occasion, “We’re not pulling a geographic with this move, are we?”

She’s not.
She’s fulfilling her original goal of living abroad.
She’s had enough of America and her mostly very conservative and narrow-minded hometown.

But me?

I think if I name the thing I don’t want to be guilty of, it will keep it at bay. Except every time I want reassurance that I’m not running away, something in my gut sends an, uh-oh alert to my brain. As in, I’m definitely running away. Because these days more than simply wanting an adventure, I want to be in a new place. I want to consider my transsexual relationship away from the trappings of a small and (too) familiar town where everyone who finds out about S’s transsexuality has a pointed opinion they are not shy about sharing; usually it’s ultimately supportive (after many questions) but sometimes it’s downright mean.

A year and some months pass and I think about living in Japan.
I haven’t run away yet as I haven’t escaped the confrontations that come with a rigorous raking over of me and S’s future.
Case in point: we are no longer coupled and despite moments of wanting to jet on the immediate, I stay put. I work out the highs and lows of living in a far-off unfamiliar that still doesn’t feel like home. I’m also at peace knowing that I may not ever feel completely at home here; Tokyo was never intended as a final destination.

As for finding myself, that’s certainly happened and continues to, thank goodness. This life is an often funny and delightful little mindfuck in that just when I’ve figured something out, made the hard choice and breathed a sigh of, “Okay…that bit is finished,” I am shocked at what comes next.

So the next side of my never-ending relationship Rubik’s cube?
I’m just beginning to unpuzzle this one but it revolves around a specific notion of control as a new adventure begins…

relationshipping

I say, Give me the real

so it’s only fair that I give back said real.

And currently, this is the real:
We each found love post (visa)marriage and it has been the hardest thing.

I’m not friends with my exes. With one, we aren’t not friends but we certainly aren’t a presence in each other’s lives. And to get to true peace of the end of what was basically a common-law marriage, I had to exercise a total break.

With my ex-GF/wife (whom I will refer to as S from here on out):
I choose to break up.
And it is the most difficult thing.

As S transitions, there is no less love but the rapid-heartbeat, make-me-melt love gives way to a more protective, almost maternal love. It isn’t the end of a honeymoon phase as this is 1.8 years into our relationship. Romantic love turns agape love.

I move on, emotionally, while she is still in love with me.
This then becomes the most difficult thing.

I feel guilty for moving on, I wish I could ignore my stupid heart. I don’t break up unless it is undeniably time because that look- when I look into her beautiful eyes that read only such deep heartbreak…well, that breaks my heart every time. And knowing that I’m the cause of an agonizing heartbreak makes me feel pretty damn rotten. There’s just no getting out of any meaningful relationship without hurt. The deeper the love, the more fucking massive the hurt.

She finds love, which confronts me with a slew of unexpected feelings.
And this makes me a most difficult person.

It’s not fair. It being the inevitable grief that comes with a significant ending to an incomparably more significant relationship. It’s not fair for either of us because grieving is just plain hard. When I chose to break up with S, I knew I was shutting the door on unconditional love. I could have someone who would love and cherish me no matter what, who wanted nothing more but a permanent future with me because that equaled a bright hope and happiness. Stupid, stupid heart.

I am no longer her person.
Her face lights up so brightly, voice softens, mood transforms and her heart visibly melts when she receives a text or call from her love.
Before this incredible, new love, my loss wasn’t so palpable; as I moved on, she’s been working through one hell of a terrific heartbreak until her new beautiful person.

This isn’t jealousy.
S is a beautiful person through and through and I want love to do right by her, in a way that I could not.

This is the realness of feeling the loss of the love I gave up.

random love

THAT word

elicits some strong reactions.

Yup, I’m talking cunt.
And moist.
Ha.

I think those might be the two most hated words in the English language. It seems that moist nauseates people and cunt offends the fuck out of many folks.

So of course my juvenile mind thinks, what if we committed to using those words in conjunction? I mean, a moist cunt isn’t nauseating nor offensive unless one has issues of a different sort altogether.

Here’s my rationale:
If you’re a straight man, lesbian or bi there is no problem with a moist cunt.
If you’re a gay man and that combination is very ew gross, maybe it’ll lead to thoughts of other, much more scrumptious sex?
And after reading through the very violent insta-response moist produces, vag imagery might not be the worst thing.

Personally, moist doesn’t bother me and cunt has been one of my longstanding favorites.
Moist cunt?
That’s good fun.

Perhaps my side project of the week is what set off this train of thought.
I leave you beautiful people with that imagery below as I ponder what word does drive me nuts in a rotten way…

random love

Perfect attendance

was never my thing.

***

Except once.
Once in my life I didn’t miss a class the whole semester.

Goddammit, no Cont Art/Theory/Crit for me. Again.
I have yet to have a schedule that will allow my learning about Now Art so I take High Modern instead, which cuts off exactly when I get highly interested- 1968.
My sculpture advisor has such a constant hard-on for the macho gay artists of this period that I wonder if I’m going to witness the same reel of aggressive, testosterone-driven Rauschenberg, Johns, Pollock images and bios referenced in sculpture class.

Turns out, no.
The professor is a junkie for contemporary art, a beyond serious museum nerd and reputed to be a hard-as-nails, total bitch.
In other words, I will probably have a crush on her in a matter of days.
I smile.

This woman lives for modern art and I love her for it. She’s pretty ruthless if you don’t give two shits about investigating the why behind the art(ists) in their historical and contemporary context but the class cares. And though she’ll cut down lofty musings not grounded in earnest investigation of the topic at hand during class, she’s a really generous professor. For instance, her attendance policy: 100% attendance=final exam opt-out. Hell. Yes.

End-of-semester usually entails many hours of underslept hell on earth so eliminating one more exam/project sounds awesome. Except I like this class; I look forward to it and perfect attendance turns out to be a pretty painless endeavor.
This is unusual because I always skip a class or two. Sometime it’s because I can’t be in two places at once but often, I enjoy taking a personal day; I’ve done this since I was in my single digits.

***

So I’m memory tripping to a perfect attendance moment because of my recent FAILed attempt to post daily for the month of December. Pre-scheduled posts much? Right…I haven’t mastered that one yet. *sigh*

Still, let’s see what happens the rest of the month…although I guess it’s silly to daily post challenge during maximum holiday cheer month.
But I’m in Japan where people work on 12.25; there are no holidays in December*, which is extremely weird.
So of course I’m taking a personal day…it’s fucking Christmas for chrissakes.

*I lied; the Emperor’s birthday is December 23rd=holiday

	funkytilt on Hot December
	rumibean on Hot December
	funkytilt on Hot December
	Hot December \| My BF… on Perfect attendance
	Her turnaround \| My… on The flip-side

My BF turned me into a lesbian…in Japan

Adventures in international living from a hetero-queer perspective.